


An Old Oak Tree

by carolnuts



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Family, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Minor Character Death, Vampires, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23760850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolnuts/pseuds/carolnuts
Summary: Emmett watches over his human family, from afar.Canon-compliant, historically accurate.
Relationships: Alice Cullen/Jasper Hale, Carlisle Cullen/Esme Cullen, Edward Cullen & Emmett Cullen, Emmett Cullen/Rosalie Hale
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	An Old Oak Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jayballing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jayballing/gifts).



They almost slipped off my mind for six years.

I thought of them often enough, sure. Carlisle had alerted me to hold my human memories close in the first couple of months, so that I wouldn’t forget anything as my newborn phase passed through. So, I did. Between the woes of the thirst that constantly tormented me and the wonder that was Rosalie, I tried to focus and remember the important things as often as I could.

Remembering my brothers was easy – Ernest, Everett, and Elliot – my memories of them are solid and firm, as good as human memories can be. I can recall many of our numerous fights and brawls, flirting with the resort tourists together, whistling dirty songs on the way to the woods, and even trailing behind them as a wee kid. We were all lumbers, all tall, brown haired and blue eyed, easy smiles and strong hands. Even today, I can hear their voices and see their smiles.

My mother and father were a bit harder to remember – as a middle child, I didn’t get their attention as much. Evina was a kind, plump woman who sang us lullabies and told us stories of leprechauns and _fae_. I can see my mother’s face in my mind, but not my father’s. Of Thomas, I remember stern looks and harsh beatings, but also advice on how to be a good man.

Of my younger siblings, I remember very little. The oldest of them, Aidan, was already seventeen when I was turned, but he was a sensible, sickly child who did not join his older brothers on adventures. Mother doted on him the most, I remember that.

My two sisters are only vague silhouettes in my memory – Eleanor and Saoirse were fourteen and ten when I died, and I did not talk much to either of them. I know that Eleanor was supposed to be the last child, our little girl, until Saoirse came along unwanted - I remember how my mother cried to my father when she didn’t think I was looking – _seven is too much_ , _how are_ _we going to get by?_

The few memories I had of my time with the McCarty’s did not particularly bring me joy as a young vampire. When I was welcomed to the splendorous and luxurious lifestyle of the Cullen’s, my simple old life in a cabin with too many beds and not enough food suddenly left a bad taste in my mouth. When I learned of Rosalie’s life as a young socialite – her father worked at a _bank,_ while _my_ father could not even read – the distaste turned into shame and I wanted nothing more than to forget all about being a human.

But they all advised me to treasure my memories, to think about them carefully and not let my new memories overtake and erase my old ones. Contrary to what many would expect, I was a dutiful newborn, eager to be a part of their lifestyle completely, so I did what I was told.

When I was only three months old and the thirst was finally letting me _think_ , I realized that my human family must have been wondering what became of me. There were no bones in the woods to find, no letter detailing a runaway, no register of a brawl in a bar that could have ended with my body floating on the Little Pigeon River. At the time, I did not think about missing them or wishing them with me, but I remembered Aidan’s skin covered in sweat as he laid in bed, feverish, and how cold it really could get in our cabin when winter was at its worst. I knew that my income was needed to make ends meet.

I pleaded with Carlisle, and with Rosalie's and Esme's support, he finally relented. On November 17, 1935, when the entire family was at church, we left two thousand dollars inside my father’s drawer. I delivered it personally, Rosalie’s hand grasping firmly into mine. I held my breath the entire time.

It was a decent amount of money, about thirty thousand dollars today. I wanted to leave more, but Edward was against it. He used words I did not fully understand at the time – like liability, admissible evidence and embezzlement. I trusted him, so that was it.

I gave my family the money and, for a little over six years, I did not think about them for more than a second at a time.

* * *

It wasn’t the war that made me truly care about them again. It was Esme.

We were all aware of the war, of course, but we mostly talked about it like it was a faraway thing. We were living in Wyoming, a little town near the Grand Teton National Park, and I was doing very well – no accidents in over a year. Carlisle had commented that I could try going to school the next time we moved, and I was thrilled. I had never gone to school before. We all heard the news about the battles going on in Europe, and we could sense that the humans were getting increasingly worried. Edward was particularly obsessed with it, he ate up every bit of information he could find about Luftwaffe, Mussolini, Churchill and the sort. In 1940, he took a train to New York to get a glimpse at the minds of Americans coming back from the old continent, _just to get some context_ , he said. Carlisle forbid him from going all the way to Germany to “gather information” – and we all could tell that he was genuinely upset about that.

But I wasn’t truly paying attention to any of it, it was like buzz noise to me. I was too much focused on _Rosalie_. Those first years of our relationship, I didn’t do much but look at her, listen to her, touch her. We were locked into our own perfect little world for days at a time. Weeks sometimes. She didn’t go to high school or college until I did, so we were together almost always – and we weren’t really listening to the radio much. It was intimate, powerful, and one of the sweetest periods of my eternal life.

On December 08, 1941, Rose and I happened to be home with the rest of the family. It was snowing, and Esme wanted to see Rosalie and plan our Christmas celebrations. That day, we were startled when we heard Carlisle’s car parking from the hospital – it was too early, barely three in the afternoon. Esme raised herself from the sofa with an anxious expression, but Edward merely sighed and closed his eyes as Carlisle entered our home.

“Guess it was only a matter of time, huh?” he said.

“What happened?” asked Esme, running to Carlisle and holding his hand. Carlisle didn’t answer at all. He looked eerily old in that moment. He opened his bag, and took the newspaper inside, holding it in front us so that we could all read the headlines. In big bold letters, the Casper Tribune-Herald read _U.S. DECLARES WAR: 1.500 dead in Hawaii as Japs attack._

* * *

The next couple of days were hectic on the Cullen household, but even still I wasn’t really paying attention. We would have to move, explained Carlisle, because war meant uncertainty and uncertainty meant vampires causing mayhem. The sudden human movement between countries was certain to cause a rush of vampires seeking the new feeding grounds that were the military camps, and a battle could quickly become a buffet worth fighting for. Besides, we could not risk being drafted and having to forge an excuse not to go. The best option for us was to simply disappear and abandon the identities we currently held – a car accident ought to do for our deaths.

It was quickly decided we would move to Alaska, hang out with the Denali Coven until it was all over – _shouldn’t take much, ten years at most_ calculated Edward. I had not yet met the Denali’s, but I was excited at the prospect of hunting in the tundra, so I enthusiastically agreed. Rose was less excited - I knew how she liked being close to society. Being up there would mean she would go without new clothes, magazines, or being the object of human praise and envy for a while. Knowing Rosalie as long as I had, I knew that those small vanities were a much-needed distraction for her. She did not voice those feelings, but she didn’t need to. We didn’t need words to understand each other.

Rosalie and Edward took care of most of the bureaucracy, so Esme and I were handling the moving itself while Carlisle worked. I was Esme’s handy-man, wrapping up curtains and packing china – not that we had that much china to begin with. We had moved five times in the last six years, so we had a system settled. I always looked forward to those bits of alone time with Esme – her kindness and affection were a great source of comfort to me, and I was already seeing her as a mother.

The topic of our conversation that day was the war, as it so often was during those years. She talked the most, and I listened. She told me stories about the great war, and how it had been for her. Her husband had fought in it, and she had spent the entire war worried and anxious – half hoping that he would die and half blaming herself for such thoughts. Yet he did not die. He came back, harsher, crueler and drunker, and the rest was history.

“You know what’s strange?” She told me while we were loading the sofas on our truck, “I keep thinking that if my Joseph was alive… if he had survived the fever… he might be going to war right now. He would be twenty.” She was silent for a while, so I went over her and gave her a hug. I knew that talking about her son was very hard for Esme. “It’s alright,” she sniffled against my shirt. “It’s just… it’s going to be a very hard for mothers in this country right now. I’m just glad I don’t have to worry about you or Edward!”

She sounded so motherly at that moment, that I couldn’t help but remember my own mother’s plump face. Evina McCarty would be worried sick about this war – and she had plenty of sons eligible for the draft.

The thought of my brothers going to war hit me like a ton of bricks, and I was glad that Esme couldn’t see my face. I tried to recompose and continued loading our furniture into the car, but my mind was furiously trying to _remember_.

Ernest and Everett were probably safe, I calculated. They were already over thirty, there was no sense in drafting older men into this. Even Elliot was already twenty-eight and would probably be fine. _You know they are all dumb enough to volunteer, if it comes to it_ , I reminded myself, but thinking about their ages calmed me. I tended to think of my brothers as eternally boys, immortal as I was, so picturing them as men grown was somehow strange to me. _They will be fine_ , I muttered mentally, _they’re not in their early twenties_ …

And then I remembered Aidan, and my empty chest felt immediately heavier. _How could I have forgotten my own baby brother?_ He was what, twenty-two or twenty-three right now? I couldn’t remember his birthday. Sweet Aidan, sickly Aidan, who couldn’t run because of his asthma and was frequently sick. Small Aidan, who always got the new clothes because he didn’t fit any of my hand-me-downs. Would he die in this war? Fighting against the Japanese?

I immediately concocted a hundred plans: I could go to Gatlinburg and enlist as if I were him, I could travel to Europe alongside his troop and protect him from stray bullets, I could kidnap him and move us to Brazil…

As soon as I thought of the possibilities, I knew they were useless.

I would do nothing. I had not had contact with my human family for the last six years, and I would have no contact with them now. If Aidan is to go to war, he will go. I wouldn’t know about it. I wouldn’t know whether he lived or died. _They might all be already dead right now, and I wouldn’t have a clue…_

As I stood beside Esme, listening to her happy babble about how she would decorate our new house in Alaska, I felt strangely empty for the first time in my immortal life. The reality of truly _not being human_ was suddenly overwhelming. My chest felt heavy and I stood very still, ceasing any pretense of normality.

It wasn’t exactly grief what I was feeling – it was something heavier. In a moment, it was as if I had realized the entire _weight_ of my existence, what it truly meant to stay still while the world moved. I saw myself as an old oak tree, watching lifetimes go past me while I remained motionless. _But even oak trees grow old and die_ , I recollected, _and I wouldn’t_. My parents, my siblings, their children and grandchildren, they would be born and they would pass and I would not have a connection to the real world anymore. In time, I’d become a ghost in the world of the living.

At this point, I noticed Esme was holding my head between her hands and looking at me intently “Emmett, dearest, what is wrong?” She said, once I could focus on her face. But I couldn’t put it into words, so I just hugged her again, told her not worry about it and got back to work.

When Edward arrived home with Rosalie, he frowned silently at me, but made no other comment. I was grateful for that – the last thing I wanted was to worry Esme and Carlisle when there was nothing to be done about how I was feeling.

I did confide in Rosalie, but not until later that night, when we were alone and no one could hear us. I figured if anyone could understand me, it would be my wife.

She did not offer any condolences, and did not attempt to sooth me by saying they would all be safe – she was too honest for that. “I feel the same,” she said, holding me very close. “Before you came, I was despairing with the thought of being alone forever. But you came, and you made eternity bearable to me. With you, living forever does not feel so bad.”

Rosalie had two little human brothers, and they would also be old enough to fight in this was. I wondered whether she missed them. As if she on cue, she continued.

“I don’t really think of them very much, of little Willian and Raymond. They were almost ten years younger than me, you know… My family wasn’t really close. Even when I was human, we weren’t really friends with each other.” She frowned, trying to remember details “When I think of my human family, it’s as if I’m thinking about something happening in the bottom of the ocean or in Russia. It is as if I’ve severed my connections with them, like I stood solid and they turned into dust at my touch. My memories of them are so fuzzy and distant, sometimes I wonder if I ever was human at all. The more I try to remember, the less real they feel.”

Although her sentiments seemed to be completely opposite to mine, I strangely understood her. All in all, it was the same – two frozen beings, unable to move forward. We did nothing but hold each other that night, and it was almost enough to sooth my inner turmoil. Almost. As the morning came, I slowly understood that this weight would never leave me again, and this strange _aching_ I was beginning to feel would only get worse.

But there was nothing I could do, and so, I did nothing.

* * *

We moved to Alaska two weeks later, leaving a burning car on the side of the road with some charred to the bone deer remains Carlisle had graciously arranged, too scorched to be anything other than an unidentifiable biological mess – it was one of our most common solutions to leaving a town as quickly as possible. Our new residence was an abandoned cabin near Lake Minchumina – we spent a month reforming the ruined structure until it was a respectable house suited for vampires.

There, we settled into a comfortable routine. Carlisle wasn’t working this time, and, officially, we weren’t even there. Once a fortnight or so, Carlisle or Edward drove – or ran - to a nearby town to get our post – mountains of newspapers, magazines, books, and the occasional building supply or fabric Esme and Rosalie required. The Denali’s visited us frequently and we all enjoyed being in a big group, telling stories over the fire and playing games. I don’t think anyone would admit it, but it made us feel very human.

Days faded into weeks while we stayed up in our hideout, as I had come to think of it. Before anyone noticed, it was already 1944 and, according to the seemingly infinite stream of newspapers Edward read day and night, the war as coming to an end.

I thought of my human family much more often while we were at Denali. I wouldn’t call myself obsessed, but I did wonder how were the McCarty’s faring during the crisis – _was I_ _already an uncle? How was the cabin holding up? Is father still working as much?_ I did not voice any of those concerns, of course, but I couldn’t hide anything from Edward. Aside from throwing me an odd look now and then, he never said anything to anyone, and I was deeply grateful for this.

He did broach the subject with me eventually. To this date I don’t know whether or not it was for the best.

On August 24, 1944, Edward came to me with a strangely somber expression, and I immediately knew something bad had happened.

“Listen…I knew you wouldn’t approve, but I did it for you. I arranged to have a Tennessee journal delivered here, with all my other journals. So we would know… we would know…in case something had happened with _them_ ” He said apologetically, but I only half listened – I was concentrated on the piece of paper he carefully handed me. Edward continued talking, but I could no longer hear him at all. I stared at the battered newspaper, too fixated on its contents to understand anything else.

The page he handed me was the obituary section, charmingly named “ _Our War Heroes_ ”, of the Knoxville News Sentinel of July 26, 1944. There were 8 names listed on thesection that day, but I only cared about one. The first name read, in very gray, very small letters " _Aidan Jeremy McCarthy 1918 - 1944: survived by his wife Mathilda and his son Emmett_.”

As the words’ meaning sank, I dropped the newspaper as if I it was on fire. Then, I began to run.

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled upon a section on the twilight wiki stating that, after handing some money to his human family, Emmett never thought of them again. Somehow, this bothered me very much, so I wrote this to fix that.


End file.
